


Scapegoat

by catastrophage



Series: In Memory of Troy [5]
Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcoholism, Darkfic, Dissociation, Domestic Violence, Gen, Hinted Suicidality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophage/pseuds/catastrophage
Summary: Troy's jaw hurt, his nose bled. Once they showed up in the doorframe there was nothing he could do.This ficlet expands Day 15 and 16 of theDiary of Sorts.





	Scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> This short story contains a lot of potential triggers. Please make sure you're safe reading this.  
> My choice of music for this scene is anything from Katatonia, or to contrast it, Enya.  
> It took me a while to finish this, and I promise the next one will be lighter again.  
> Also: Phil is an asshole.
> 
>  _"You would never sleep at night if you knew what I've been through,_  
>  _And this thought is all I have to trust upon when light is gone..."_  
>  (Katatonia - For my Demons)

**Scapegoat**

He could hear their steps, could hear the floor boards creak. Once they showed up in the doorframe there was nothing he could do. Troy had quickly pulled a blanket over his body, huddled in a corner of his bed. Faking sleep had never helped before... he didn't expect it to help now.  
"We're not wearing shoes to bed," Jeremiah declared with a slur. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks hung far down - and Troy didn't even need to see him to know he was drunk. He always only went upstairs when he was drunk.  
Phil was leaning against the doorframe next to him, nose red and tiny eyes squinting at him. "The boy is no good," he snarled. "He is no good, Otto." 

Troy was in a dilemma. He could either leave the bed on the side closer to the door, closer to the men who had abused him many times before and would likely do it again tonight. Or he could turn around and untie his boots on the other side, but that would mean turning his back at them. He decided it was worth the risk. _Please let them see I'm trying,_ he thought. Facing the dark wall of his bedroom, he reached for the shoelaces with shaky hands. One of them turned on the light. "Is that blood on your shirt?" Phil's voice asked from right behind him. Troy had almost jumped up, startled by the sudden closeness. He had not heard him approach. He swallowed and took a deep breath, before he answered as calmly as possible. "Day before yesterday. I've been hunting quails."  
"Oh yes," Phil snorted. "I remember. The day you came home with empty hands."  
Now Jeremiah came in as well. He went around the bed and put a hand on Troy's shoulder. When the young man didn't look at him, he reached below his chin with the other hand, lifting his head for him. " _Troy..._ " - the way he emphasized his name made him feel sick. "You're lying. What are you hiding?"

Troy stared at him. Stared at his hollow cheeks and sad wrinkles. Jeremiah was all he had never wanted to be like. And at the same time he was all he could ever look up to. To make him proud was a life goal he could never reach, but to disappoint him was not an option either. "It's nothing. It's game, I didn't hurt anyone."  
"It's not the day before yesterday," Jeremiah replied with threatening calmness. Troy could sense Phil behind him, he could feel him smile, could envision the grimace of his old man face, in joy of the violence that was about to emerge. Phil, when he was drunk, looked like a garden gnome gone wrong. And it could have been funny, if he wasn't the most malicious person Troy had ever met.

"Thinking about it," Phil pondered, "I've seen Justin with a black eye today. Down near the infirmary." Troy swallowed. It wasn't unusual for Justin to get involved in fights. It could have been anyone. Jake. William. One of the older boys while they were drunk. All that Troy knew was he hadn't been the one to beat him up. He had been busy studying walkers out in the desert, but how to explain his secret discoveries?  
"You don't like Justin," Jeremiah interrupted his thoughts. Troy pulled his head away from his father's hand. "He's not my best friend and will never be, but I don't mind him," he answered truthfully.  
Jeremiah's hand got hold of Troy's collar and pulled him closer, so the young man could smell the booze when his father was exhaling. "Why are you lying?" the old man hissed. "What have you done?"

Troy could feel himself losing his temper as well. What they were doing was unfair, he didn't even get a chance to defend himself. "You should've asked _Justin_ what _he's_ done to des..." - he couldn't finish his sentence. Jeremiah's fist landed on his jaw. He still held him by the collar of his shirt, still stared at him with small, tired eyes.  
Troy looked to the side. He couldn't look into his father's eyes when he was drunk and violent. He didn't want all those feelings to wash over him. He didn't want to _empathize_. And yet he could already feel his body yearn for the pain, could feel his father's hatred boiling in his own chest.

"Look at me," Jeremiah demanded, voice still threateningly calm. When his son didn't obey, he beat him again. Troy could feel a line of blood run down his nose. Then the man shoved him away, onto the mattress.  
He just lay there, slowly reached up to his collar, straightening the crumpled fabric, and wiped away the blood from his face. He was hoping they would leave soon. But they were still in the room, staring at him, projecting all their anger and hate onto his existence. Troy reached for the blanket, tried to signal he wanted to sleep, now that he had undressed his boots. He felt strangely weak in their presence. Vulnerable. Unable to fight back.

"He's a wimp," Phil slurred. "He'd never made it to the army. _Never._ "  
The man staggered back to the door, and Troy held his breath, not wanting to interrupt his departure. He could still hear Phil's voice, and his steps on the squeaking floor boards. "He wasn't here, he'd be dead tonight. _Dead,_ Otto! He'd be gone for good."  
Jeremiah followed him with a sigh. "Boy doesn't know how good he has it."

Troy waited until he heard them walking down the stairs before he even dared breathing. His shoulders started shaking when he finally exhaled, partially from sadness, partially just laughing with relief. He comforted his jaw with his hand, tried to ease the dull pain, the sensation matching the disappointment of his father, the only deep-felt emotion he ever seemed to have. If he could vanish, disappear by force of will, he would do it. He imagined how they would search him when he was gone, how they would get worked up more and more, unable to vent their anger.  
But he was there, right there. In his room, on his bed and still bleeding from his nose. With shaking hands, he reached for the notebook in his pocket and wrote a last note. Then he got up and left the room.

Cool drops of water hit his skin, soothing the pain he felt deep within. The shower didn't get hot at this time of the night, and Troy liked it this way. The cold was numbing, and while it wasn't exactly comforting, it washed away his emotions and cleared his head. No more sadness, no more weakness.  
He tossed his bloody shirt in the bathtub, but he knew that it wasn't the shirt that betrayed him. Had it been clean, they would have found another reason to beat him. But it was over now. He took a look at the mirror - the blood was gone. It was over.

The next day all was back to normal. Troy went his way and nobody stopped him. But in the evening, when he was back home and listening to his old radio to gather more information about the outbreak, he could hear their voices down in the living room. They were drinking again. Phil raised his voice, so that Troy could understand every single word through the wooden floor boards. They were talking about _Operation Cobalt,_ the killing command.  
With horror written in his face, Troy remembered what Phil had said the last night. How he should be dead now, if he hadn't been at the ranch. He realized that Phil actually thought it was unfair that he, who had never been stable enough to join the military would live while others, better fitted for the apocalypse, died in the bombing. He realized Phil could maybe try to restore justice and kill him, drunk as he was.

Troy sneaked out of his bedroom door. He had his notebook with him, a pen, flashlight, knife and a gun. Nothing more - he could change his clothes back home the next day. Three normal steps, then a wide step in front of Jake's door. He knew exactly which floor boards would make noise, which could be heard downstairs. Growing up at the ranch, he hadn't just learned how to survive the apocalypse, but also the threats more imminent. The next part was a bit complicated. He had to stay close to the wall of the corridor, and skip the first two steps of the stairs. As a kid he had fallen down a couple times trying to sneak out. But now he had perfected it and he reached the front door unnoticed. A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him that the door to his father's study was closed, and the next moment he was standing outside, taking a deep breath of refreshing night air, before he started to run.

Praying that they wouldn't look out of the window, he ran down the hill, and as soon as he could safely leave the road, he went through the tumbleweed plants to cross the ranch unseen. Just in case anyone would watch him, he headed for Cooper's trailer, but then took a turn just before reaching it and entered one of the bunk houses. The door fell shut and Troy leaned against it, slowly letting himself slide down to the floor. He was slightly out of breath, but in one piece and unharmed.  
Once he felt safe enough, he got up again and climbed on one of the bunk beds. 

An hour passed. He had used the flashlight for a brief moment to take notes in his diary, but then made sure to switch it off, so that Phil wouldn't see him on his way home. It could have been an adventure. As a kid he would surely think of it as such. But now he just felt worn out from the hostility. He had always valued the months in which Phil was gone, the ranch had turned into a much more peaceful place at those times.  
Troy lay awake, thinking of the old times, before the apocalypse. Now everything would change. Everyone would stay here, those he'd prefer to be gone as well as his friends. If just one of his friends would have been with him, he thought. Phil wouldn't lay hand on Mike, Vernon didn't approve of it. Or Cooper, he was strong and tall.  
But Troy was alone, and he froze in his bed when he heard steps approach the door.  
_Knock._ Troy could feel his heart beat against his throat. _Knock._ "You in there, boy?"

He entered the shack anyway, without waiting for a reply. "You're one lucky boy," Phil slurred. "All this land, and you know it's gonna be yours one day. And you do nothing," he huffed. " _Nothing,_ " he repeated while he approached Troy's bed. "You're just slacking." The old man stood next to Troy's bunk and stared at him in the darkness. "Say, do you still read books?"  
Troy wasn't sure if he should answer or just wait for him to continue his monologue. The next moment he could feel a hand on his leg and Phil tried to pull him down the bed with force - the young man couldn't help squealing.  
"That was a question!" Phil barked, visibly angered. Troy couldn't see his red face in the darkness, but he had noticed his eyes becoming even smaller. "Yes," he quickly said, voice low as if he was still afraid to be discovered. "Yes I read books."  
Troy was sitting on the edge of the bunk bed, legs dangling down, eyes wide, but at least he didn't fall. 

Troy tried not to blink. He stared at Phil, and he could sense him staring back. It would be just a matter of time before he snapped and lashed out at him. To minimize the damage, he let himself slide down the bed and stood in front of the older man. "I enjoy reading. And... working at the ranch. I'm good with the crop-" A fist to his stomach stopped his sentence. Troy could feel Phil's hand on his shoulder, holding him up, and a second punch to his body. "You don't even know what's going on," Phil hissed and shoved the younger against the wall. "You've not seen what I've seen."

Troy bit his lip. The dull pain in his stomach made him sick, but it was easier to endure than Phil's words. Troy had seen the undead. He had heard what had happened on the radio. He had seen the pictures on Jake's laptop. He had beheaded one of those freaks and put him in a birdcage. But Phil was not meant to know as much, so Troy just swallowed and nodded. 

"You're retarded," Phil continued. "I told Otto. Told him he'd better sent you away. Let the Indians do the job. Or the desert."  
Troy closed his eyes. No matter what Jeremiah had done to him, he knew he wouldn't abandon him. Phil was an idiot if he thought he would. A soft smile appeared on Troy's lips, when he opened his eyes again. "I'm still here," he whispered.  
Phil's fist hit him again, this time against his cheekbone. Troy staggered and fell against one of the bunks. Another punch hit him unexpected and he hit his head against the bed frame. He took the chance to sink down on the floor, half on purpose. It wasn't his best idea, he realized when Phil's boot met him.

The first hits still hurt, but then Troy managed to let his mind drift away. He just lay there on the floor, tasted the blood in his mouth and thought of the time he'd spend with Mike the next day. How they could go for a ride again.  
The young man closed his eyes and thought of the soft grassy ground he would sit on. He left his body alone in the bunk house and let his mind wander. Tried to imagine how Mike would sit at home, how he would help his mother doing crosswords. Coop would be in his trailer listening to music and he'd read one of his interactive adventure books. Charlie was probably asleep already. Troy imagined walking up to her window and looking inside, watching her rest.

Troy could hear Phil's boots going away, could sense him leave. He waited until he heard the door close, before he peeked at the dark room. He didn't dare to move yet, so he kept lying on the floor, thinking of his friends, wishing he could be with them. His back trembled from sadness, and for the first time in days he could feel his eyes tear up. The more he moved his body, the more he shook and shivered, the more he could feel the pain of his bruised ribs. _If only I could disappear,_ he thought. He opened his notebook on an empty page in the back and wrote down the one thought that wouldn't leave him alone. _I just want to vanish. Please let me go._


End file.
